15. Logan

CHAPTER 15

LOGAN

The sun is already taking a dive, staining the sky with bloody streaks as we pull up to the shooting range. It's an old beast, squatting on the outskirts of Vegas, battered by time and desert winds. The neon sign flickers, half-dead, like it's giving up on trying to shine. I feel that. There's a heaviness in my chest that sinks deeper with each shuddering breath—Ma isn't doing well at all, her thread of life fraying thinner by the hour.

I try to push the thoughts away, push the inevitable away, to drown the reality with work, work that has paid off the final hospital bill, work I’m still struggling to accept as something my father would be proud of.

Contrary to my expectations, Sasha’s presence seems to be the only good at this very moment. He’s been less of a pain in the ass and more of an occasional ray of sunshine, cracking some British jokes I don’t understand, asking for my guidance in picking the next place to grab a meal.

He’s been keeping me busy. Trying his hardest. I get that.

Still, my mind is clouded.

"Here we are," I murmur, pushing the Navigator’s door open. The gravel crunches underfoot as we climb out.

Sasha’s green eyes scan the rundown facade with more curiosity than disdain. Yes, like I said, he’s been slowly morphing into someone else. I guess life does that to everyone. Even spoiled brats.

His delicate brows furrow, but he nods, the movement brittle. "It looks... lived-in."

"Survived, more like." My smile feels like it's carved from stone. Ma used to say, "Smile, Logan. Even when it hurts." Hell, everything hurts these days.

Inside, the air smells of gunpowder and testosterone. I lead Sasha through the maze of corridors, past the empty booths where echoes of shots fired earlier in the day still seem to linger. I had to choose the time carefully when the place isn’t packed. After all, Sasha’s valuable cargo. With cops looking into Vlad, I need to be more vigilant. Parading him in front of a trigger-happy army of guys isn’t smart.

"Long time no see, McKenna," Ramon, the owner of the place, says, peeking from the office as we pass by him. He glances at Sasha but doesn’t comment. Former military, he knows what’s going on on both sides of the law in Vegas, knows all the key players. I’m sure he’s heard of Vlad and possibly his younger brother by now.

Good he keeps to himself. This place is his bread and butter and he’s not in the business of gossip or making enemies.

"Who’s the big guy?" Sasha asks as we swerve to another line of booths. One is occupied but the rest are empty and I escort him to the very last.

"Ramon," I reply. "He owns this range."

"I see," Sasha’s response is curt.

There’s no room for small talk anymore as we're at our booth. It's all serious now.

"Alright," I start, shaking off thoughts darker than the inside of a barrel. "Are you ready?"

"Aren’t we going to pick up some guns and ammo?"

"Yes, I am. You’re staying put."

"Why?"

"Because some people who come here are looking into your brother. Better be out of sight."

Sasha rolls his eyes but doesn’t disagree.

I meet Ramon at the supply check-out stand and pick up a Glock, same as mine, buy the ammo, ear protection, and glasses. Then I head back to our lane. When I return to the booth, Sasha looks scared as if he had time to think this over in my absence and isn’t sure he’s up for it.

"You certain you want to do this?" I ask, handing him the glasses and the ear protection.

"Yes. It’s just strange." He shrugs.

"What is?"

"The fact that no one ever considered me good or smart or strong enough to teach me all these things Vlad is doing."

"I don’t think that’s the reason no one showed you how to fire a gun. I think it’s because your family wanted a different future for you."

He shakes his head and says nothing.

"Anyway," I change the subject. "Let’s get started. First thing's safety. Always check if the weapon's loaded before handling it."

"Understood," Sasha replies, his accent wrapping around the words like ivy. His fingers dance nervously on the table where the gun lies disassembled.

"Let's prep your gear." I demonstrate, piecing together the Glock with practiced ease, then fire a few rounds so he could get used to the idea. "You’ll do the same. Work with prepping the weapon first. Muscle memory's important."

Sasha mimics me, slower, but with a concentration that's almost fierce. His hands are steady until they aren't—until they remember where they are, what they're preparing to do.

"Good," I say, because encouragement costs nothing, and he looks like he needs it. "Now hold it like I showed you, firm grip, two hands."

"Like this?" He points at the target at the end of the lane and holds the gun out, and his stance is all wrong—a picture knocked askew.

"Here." I step in close behind him—maybe even too close—and guide his arms into position with my own hands wrapped around his upper body.

My breath fans over the spot behind his ear, and I'm acutely aware of the proximity, the accidental brush of our bodies. There’s tension between us I never anticipated, not with someone eleven years younger. It’s an electric hum under my skin that I've got no right to feel, not now. So familiar and so inconvenient. "Feet shoulder-width apart," I murmur, trying to distract myself. "Bend your knees slightly. Lean forward a bit." Oh fuck! Why did I say that?

"Got it," he breathes, and I can feel the vibration of his voice against my chest even though he’s turned with his back to me, facing the lane.

"Focus on your target," I instruct. "Breathe. Squeeze the trigger gently. Don't jerk it; you're not punching, you're guiding."

"Right. Breathe, aim, squeeze." He repeats the mantra, a whisper lost in the cavernous space. "Not a punch. A guide."

"Exactly." I grab the ear protection slung around his neck and put it on him, then step back. And in that suspended moment, there's nothing but the weight of the world on that single point of pressure. Then, a sharp crack shatters the silence, and the bullet flies off course, punching no hole near the center of the target.

But that doesn’t stop him. He readjusts his stance, the lean muscles under the tight sleeves of his T-shirt shifting beneath his pale, London skin. And all of a sudden Alexander Solovey isn’t a useless, rich kid. He’s a man. Very young and inexperienced, but there’s nothing boyish about him right now, holding a gun with a concentrated face.

This is training, not temptation. Remember that, Logan.

"Logan?" Sasha calls, dragging me out of my thoughts. He pulls the ear protection down. His voice is timid but determined and it has a strange effect on me. "Is it always like this? The weight, the... responsibility of it?"

"Always," I admit, because there's no point in sugarcoating the truth. "It gets familiar, but it never really gets easy."

"Thanks. For showing this to me." His gratitude hits like a sucker punch, because he sounds sincere, and I'm not sure I deserve it. I’m not teaching him how to bake. I’m teaching him how to fire a weapon. And where weapons are involved, death always follows.

"Part of the job," I say, gruffer than I intend. But then he smiles, small and tentative, and damn if it doesn't warm the cold corners of my soul just a little. And that cursed beauty mark on his left cheek only makes him look cuter than he already is.

Fuck. What is wrong with me?

"Let's keep going," I say, turning away to hide the conflict warring in me—the guilt that gnaws at my insides like a caged animal, knowing that Ma's fighting a battle she can't win, while I'm here playing teacher to a man who should be just another job.

But Sasha Solovey isn't just another job. And that's the sort of trouble I can't afford. Because Vlad will kill me.

Weeks bleed into one another, marked by the rhythm of bullets shot by Sasha in Ramon’s range and the hollow space where my mother's voice used to be.

When I ask Vlad for time off, he simply nods. "I hear your mother is not well," he says, and I wonder if he sees the fissures spreading through me because Sasha mentioned something to him or if he had someone follow me, investigate my life.

"Yes," I tell him. "Been a long battle for her."

"We have no control over who stays and who goes, Logan," Vlad says. "Please accept my condolences and take all the time you need. I’ll have Ivan watch over Alexander until you come back."

Cecilia slips away on a Tuesday, as dawn creeps across the sky, painting it in hues of gold and sorrow. She’s serene, as if she simply decided to step off the carousel of life, leaving behind the laughter and the tears.

I cry. Alone in the silence of her room, surrounded by the memories of our shared past. I allow the grief to wash over me, a flood seeking to cleanse yet only serving to drown.

The next couple of days are a blur. Stan, ever the rock, is at my side, making arrangements with Magda’s help and some of Ma’s family. My father’s relatives arrive too. There are people in her apartment, talking in hushed voices and throwing glances at me. I nod when someone offers their condolences, but eventually, I’m tired of hearing it. Because every time it happens, it’s a reminder she’s gone.

The day of the funeral is hot, Vegas-in-summer-hot. And the sun beats down mercilessly on our group as we gather around the open grave. Occasionally, a breeze ruffles the edges of the funeral tent. It’s the only respite from the suffocating heat.

Still, I have to do this. I have to do this right. I have to see Ma off the way she wanted.

Tears suppressed, I stand stoically in my black suit, the fabric clinging to my skin, a physical reminder of the grief in my heart.

Stan’s presence is comforting, serving as a reminder of our friendship.

He's one of the few friends I have on the force who has chosen to look past the drama and controversy surrounding my departure from the police department. Deep down I think he knows—he figured out—the truth.

Around us, the cemetery is a sea of familiar faces—old colleagues who just like Stan believe that I’ve never been a dirty cop, distant relatives I barely recognize, and friends of my mother whose names get lost in the fog of my memory. They've come to pay their respects, yet their presence only amplifies the empty space Ma left behind.

"Let us commend Cecilia to the mercy of God," the priest intones, his voice steady despite the somber occasion. He reads passages from the Bible, offers prayers for her soul, and speaks of the resurrection—a promise of life after death that seems too ethereal to grasp.

And I pray silently that it’s true, that my father is waiting for her in Heaven now.

A few feet away, a table stands with a guest book, photographs of Ma smiling in happier times, and a jar for donations to her favorite charity. It's a traditional setup, but each element feels like a weight added to the burden I’m to carry.

As the murmuring of condolences and soft sobs fill the air, I see August weave through the crowd toward me. Our eyes meet, and something passes between us.

"Logan," August says, his Swedish lilt softer than I remember. His blue eyes are kind, reflecting genuine concern. He extends his arms for a hug. Stan respectfully takes a step back to give us space. He knows the complicated nature of my relationship with August. If anyone found out that I was seeing a man while I was working as a cop, it could ruin my career. There were some progressive colleagues, but the majority of the older officers and our superiors were not accepting of LGBTQ+ individuals on the force.

It doesn’t matter now. I’m not a cop anymore and August and I aren’t together.

"Thanks for coming," I tell him. The words catch in my throat, rough-edged and strained.

"She was... She was wonderful, Logan. Your mother," he says, his gaze flickering over my face, searching for something I'm not sure I can give. Funny thing, but Ma liked August. She encouraged me to tell my friends about him.

"Thanks." I manage a nod, fighting against the tide of memories that threaten to pull me under—the secret dinners, the laughter, the whispered compliments in the dark. Even though we both moved on, I miss it. Not him, but the intimacy you only find with the right partner.

"You're not alone. I know we didn't—"

"Finish your sentence?" I interject, the corner of my mouth twitching involuntarily.

August gives a half-smile, a sad crease forming between his brows. "I just mean... I'm here, if you need someone. We’re still friends. I care about you."

"Appreciate it," I murmur, voice barely audible over the lump forming in my throat. There's gratitude there, buried beneath layers of what-ifs and might-have-beens.

The priest asks if I want to say a word or two, but I’m in no condition. I’m still trying to come to terms with how to live my life without her.

We stand in silence, listening to Magda’s short emotional speech. Magda's voice trembles through the mourning air, a catalogue of recollections that stitch together my mother's life in patchwork eulogy. As she continues to speak, I catch a movement at the corner of my eye—a lone figure standing apart from the rest.

Sasha.

I didn’t ask him to come. Didn’t expect actually he’d show up. After all, I’m just a hired gun. Employed by his older brother to protect him. But his presence somehow calms me. Tells me it’s okay, tells me it’ll be okay.

I nod at Sasha, acknowledging him. Our gazes locked in quiet communion. There’s an invisible thread spun by loss, binding us. Two souls marooned on either shore of an ocean of grief. He stays at the edge, knowing our predicament too well, the murky waters where personal and professional bleed into one another.

The ceremony comes to the ritual of finality—people shuffling forward, scooping handfuls of dirt, letting it slip through their fingers into the grave. The dull thuds of soil hitting wood are like drumbeats. Each one is a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence that's taken a lifetime to write.

The crowd begins to thin out. People head over to their cars after offering their condolences once more.

I weave through the mass and toward the edge where Sasha’s lingering next to a palm tree.

"Thanks for coming," I murmur as I reach him, my voice low and raspy and thick. My tongue refuses to listen to me.

"Sorry about you mum," he mutters, scanning the horizon. His hands are tucked in the pockets of his black leather jacket. He’s wearing black slacks too and black shoes. He put an effort into looking appropriate, I realize, despite the heat.

"Are you alone?" I ask, worried.

"No. Ivan came with me." A tilt of his head directs my attention to where a familiar figure leans against a car parked in the line of cars that are here for the funeral. Ivan looks vigilant as always.

"Good," I exhale, relief mingling with sorrow. It's a strange comfort, knowing Sasha isn't unguarded, even here.

"But you’re coming back, right?" Sasha asks all of a sudden, his face seems younger. There’s a silent plea in his eyes.

"Of course. Why wouldn’t I?"

"I just—"

"Logan!" Stan calls out, breaking the moment. He strides over, his suit crisp, his expression solemn. He glances at Sasha, offering a tip of the chin as a way of subtle greeting. "Father Thomas wants a word, brother," he whispers to me.

"Right," I say, torn from the fragile bubble of Sasha's vicinity.

"Thanks again," I tell Sasha before Stan takes me over to see the priest.

"Who's the young blood?" Stan nods at Sasha we left behind.

"Nobody," I mutter, but the lie tastes bitter. I’m choking on the truth, swallowing it down like broken glass.

Alexander Solovey isn’t nobody.

Far from it.

"You alright?" Stan checks.

"Just want to go home," I confess.

Go home and close my eyes and not wake up until the pain is over.